Poetry Issue 5

   Issue#5: July - December 2005

Kristine Domingo


The Pear


      He can’t be bothered with our sheets,
      he must be downstairs in the kitchen
      as his shadow has always been each time
      the inconceivable has happened—
      His mother’s last two months at 53,
      or the time his quiet wife cheated, and
      the many lies that came with the cheating.

      With his right gripping a bread knife
      and his left, widening for a pear,
      his shadow shortens to a ten-year-old
      trying to get to the heart of the matter—
      his mother’s suitcase filling up
      on a bed. Not long after, her call for help
      with the carrying, by the stairs.

      In our room, as cancer cells multiply
      inside, I watch over our mattress
      the undersheet in the air. I see
      to a breath it makes, as it falls,
      lands almost perfectly in place,
      before another breath it takes to see
      the longer ends settle on the right side.

      Rind after rind, the inside darkens, shrivels
      as the good faith is squeezed out until
      there is nearly none left to divide.
      In place is a pair of seeds.
      Anything it takes, I suppose,
      even such pills, to keep him from
      finding the heart of the matter, before I do.